The Threefold Cord
by cbtreks
Summary: A short hc with a bit of a slashy feel - pre-slash, you could say. When Will's heart is broken, where does he go? A small experiment in 2nd person POV. (Written May 2004)


You're surprised to see the lad slumped over a tankard at the far corner table. Last you'd heard, he and Miss Swann had been married and were happily settled in Port Royal.

You've stopped at Tortuga to take on new hands. AnaMaria has gotten her own ship and Cotton, the voiceless old codger, has gone to wherever it is pirates go if they manage to die of old age. Hell, you suppose, and a brief shudder passes through you as you offer up a short prayer for whatever remained of his soul.

You trained Will Turner yourself and he was quick to learn. The two of you worked well together from the beginning, seeming at times to be of one mind, and you know he'd do well on the Pearl. So though it surprises you to see him huddled in the corner, it pleases you as well.

You swagger through the crowded alehouse, neatly avoiding any women who might recognize you, nimbly pocketing any change lying unnoticed on the tables (a shame, the careless way folk handle their money). You catch the serving wench's eye – there's one woman you're not avoiding – and nod toward the corner table. She smiles at you and makes her way there with two tankards of rum. You take them from her and set them down carefully, exclaiming, "Will! Lovely to see you again! Will you join me in a drink? Though from the looks of it, you've got a head start on me – perhaps I should join you." You sit down opposite him.

It takes a few long moments before Will looks up, even longer moments before he slowly blinks and his eyes focus. He tries to smile but his mouth doesn't seem to work properly. "Jack," he slurs, "Jack Sh – Shparrow! The besht pirate I ever shaw."

You smile and take a long drink from the tankard before you. "I see the rum hasn't affected your memory. Might I inquire as to your business in Tortuga? And what of your lovely wife?"

Will opens his mouth to speak but at the mention of his wife, his face twists in a painful grimace and he drops his head onto the stained and sticky table, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest on the wood for several more long moments. When he lifts his head, he doesn't say anything, but raises his tankard to his lips and drinks deeply.

Something tells you that you'll be better served by asking your questions another time. "Well I," you continue as though nothing were wrong, "am here to lay in supplies and take on hands." Though you would prefer to enjoy your rum at your leisure - and a few more as well - you drain your drink and rise to your feet. "Gibbs is taking care of the supplies, but I still need to find some men." With a flourish of your hat, you take your leave. "Good to see you again, Will. Hope it won't be so long next time." You take a step away from the table but before you take another, a hand grasps your arm. You'd been counting on Will to stop you and he doesn't disappoint.

Will has risen, none too steadily, to his feet and is leaning on the table with one hand while grasping your arm with the other. He looks dreadful – pale and hollow-eyed, his hair greasy and grown long – almost long enough to string a bauble or two. "Wait, Jack," he says. You watch him. It takes another minute before he speaks again. "Wait," he repeats.

"Still here, mate," you say.

He smiles a bit. "What about me? I wouldn't mind going to sea again. I'd like it, actually. Will you have me?"

You smile. "The Pearl is still a pirate vessel, Will, make no mistake about that," you say seriously.

"Aye," he says, "but I'd rather serve aboard the Pearl than any other ship I know."

"Does me heart good to hear it. If I'd known you were looking for a berth on a ship, I'd have searched you out first thing. I'll make you the same offer I make every man on the Black Pearl - two meals a day, a gallon of rum or ale a week, space to hang your hammock, plenty of hard work, and an equal share of all the swag we take. Have we an accord?" You hold out your hand.

Will removes his hand from your arm and shakes yours, surprisingly firmly for one so drunk. "We have," he says.

You take your seat again and call the serving wench over to the table. You and Will sit together till late in the night talking and drinking. That is, you talk; he smiles in the right spots, when he remembers to, and nods, giving a half-hearted laugh every once in awhile. Finally, the two of you leave the alehouse and, staggering more than swaggering, supporting each other, make your way to the rooming house where you'll sleep off the rum and then begin anew your search for another ship's hand tomorrow.

You were right a year and more ago when you told Will he had pirating in his blood. He takes to life aboard ship quickly, works well with the other men (you promised Gibbs you wouldn't take on a woman again – not this time, anyway), and doesn't flinch when you overtake and board a private ship your first week back to sea. His color has improved, though his hair has not, from the sun and wind and spray. He should have a kerchief for his head and you make a note to yourself to procure one for him. He's developing a sailor's squint as well, and you think to yourself that perhaps you should suggest some kohl to guard against the glare.

You know he doesn't sleep much. You've seen him prowl the ship at night when you make your rounds. Of course you trust whoever has the night watch, but the Black Pearl, she's your ship, your love, and at some point each night you can't shake the urge to walk her decks, feel her move beneath you, feel the wood and rope and canvas beneath your palms. And each night, as you make your rounds, you see Will walking the length of the ship, stopping now and again to stare into the blackness, then giving his head a shake and moving on.

Tonight you wake to the sound of rain. Not a storm, nothing your crew can't handle, but you get up anyway, donning your boots and trousers, and leave your cabin to take a quick turn around the deck. Most of the crew are asleep. Hawkins, your other new hand, is taking a turn at the wheel. Two other men stand ready to do whatever might be required of them. Everything is right. But when you approach the bow, you see a figure standing there, staring into the darkness.

You recognize Will and are about to call his name when you hear a sound that rakes across your heart. It's the sound of a man holding back a sob, making an almost impossible effort not to weep. The sound brings back the look on Will's face in Tortuga when you asked after Elizabeth. Something inside you turns cold.

You come closer and cautiously lay your hand on his shoulder. He turns to you and the look on his face confirms what you already know. "Will, lad, where is Elizabeth?" Will doesn't speak. You look at him and while you wait for him to talk, you think of other women you have known.

You haven't much memory of your mother – a sweet smell, a smile, a bit of a song. Other women have come and gone, strumpets and merchants and ale-wenches – but only once did one stay.

It was the one time you tried to walk the straight-and-narrow. Twenty years old – more than half a lifetime ago – you'd been at sea for ten years, a pirate for five. She was a merchant's daughter, Sally by name, whom you'd met in port while laying in supplies. She was pretty and charming and quick-witted. You knew you'd met your match so you took your share of the swag, found a room in which to sleep and an honest job at the docks, and began to court her properly. In half a year you were wed and eleven months after that, she and your daughter lay lifeless, both dead in childbirth.

You remember, in bits and pieces, endless days of rum and ale and tears and then coming to yourself again, to find you were a mate on the Black Pearl. You never wept again and you never loved again, not a woman, not like that, only your ship.

It takes only moments for the memories to flit through your mind. Will has turned again to the sea; rain and spray soak his hair and clothing and he's trembling, shaking with grief and cold. With your hand still on his shoulder you can feel the tremors and when you look at his face you can see that he's fighting a battle with himself, willing himself not to cry, and you can see that it's a battle he's going to lose. There aren't many men awake, just the three you'd noted earlier, hardly anyone to notice. Still, a man should be allowed his pride and you turn Will from the bow, directing him, with a hand on his back, to your cabin.

It's dark inside and you leave it that way. Some things are best told in the dark. You push Will onto the bunk and he sits there without moving. You sit at the tiny table in the corner and quietly ask, "Was it an illness?" Will says nothing and a terrible thought preys on your mind. You can hear the coldness in your own voice as you ask, "Was she killed? Tell me who and I'll avenge her for you. We can do it together."

Now Will looks up – you can barely see his face in the dimness – and he says, "There's no one to get vengeance upon. It was our son who killed her and he died too." The battle is lost and now Will sobs, the harsh painful sobs of a man who thinks he shouldn't, he thinks he should be manly and strong, but who could no more help weeping that a stabbed man can help bleeding.

Something wakens inside you. You had meant to sit here and offer comfort from a distance, but you can't. You cross your small cabin to sit next to Will on the bunk. You put an arm around his shoulder and he stills for a moment, trying to quiet his cries. "No," you whisper to him, "you need not stop. You need not stop till the wound is clean. Then it can heal with just a little scarring and one day you can think of them again."

It's as if all the bones have melted in Will's body. He slumps against you and you know, as if you'd been there, that Will had been strong for everyone. He had stood strong and offered what comfort he could to Governor Swann, to the household members, the grieving friends, even the midwife who bore the guilt of losing a mother and child. When he couldn't be strong any longer, he went to Tortuga and buried himself in rum and ale as you had done a lifetime ago. And now he was here with no strength left. No matter. For tonight, at least, you can be strong for him as no one had been for you.

Gently you lay Will down on the bunk, removing his boots, loosing his fastenings for comfort. You remove your own boots but nothing else (you've resorted to buggery before and you'd happily do it again, but not tonight, tonight isn't about lust) and you lie down beside him, gathering him in your arms. For the rest of the night, the two of you lie together. Sometimes Will weeps and sometimes he's still and sometimes he talks. You murmur nonsense words of comfort, singing the bits of song that your mother sang to you long ago. You stroke his hair and sometimes drop a kiss on his head. You hold him tightly and listen and sometimes you talk yourself. You know that sometime in the night, healing has begun – not just for Will, but for you. You even begin to wonder about loving again.

As day breaks – a clear day, the rain is done – you doze. You'll have to get up in a short while but for now, you're content to lie here, giving comfort and strength and taking it as well.

Something you once heard as a child runs through your mind: "Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken."

Will turns, nestling in closer to you, and sighs in his sleep. You're certain it's the best sleep he's had in months and you know you'll hate to have to wake him. You burrow in closer in return and smile. Strong, together. Warm, together. Helping one another when you fall. You like the idea. You, Will, and the Black Pearl – a threefold cord, you won't be quickly broken.


End file.
